One Brief Shining Moment
by LauraHuntORI
Summary: In the 1982-1983 season of the original Dallas, for a few glittering, glorious moments, a love story existed. Eyes met, challenged, darted away, returned, flirted, teased, and yearned, glowed with empathy, melted with concern, laughed and loved a whole lifetime's worth in only moments, then were gone. Main character: Mickey Trotter.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: A recent viewing of the Love Boat episode which includes the story "Bricker's Boy" reminded me just how much I loved the character of Mickey Trotter on Dallas.

" _Don't let it be forgot,_

 _that once there was a spot,_

 _for one brief, shining moment_

 _that was known as Camelot."_

–Alan Jay Lerner

Disclaimer: If I owned any of this, I wouldn't hardly be writing fanfiction about it.

* * *

Contrary to his expectation, Mickey Trotter was finding that the death of his drunken and useless Uncle Amos Krebbs was indeed a cause for grief.

A cause for his boss to _give_ him grief, that is.

"I thought you didn't like the old man." Tim Reilly pointed out in response to the young man's request for the morning off to attend the funeral.

"I didn't." Mickey agreed, flatly. He knew he needed to be polite, that he was asking for a favor Reilly didn't have to grant, but shame, as always, goaded him into sarcasm. "But it beats working."

In fact, it didn't. He had zero desire to spend a morning in church, piously listening to tripe about the salvation that old reprobate had surely not obtained, but if he didn't show, Mom would hound him to his own grave about his lack of family solidarity.

Solidarity with Amos Krebbs. He almost wished Reilly would say no.

Mickey's boss, however, knew him well enough to see through his disrespectful tone to the discomfort that lay beneath, and to guess the true reason behind the request, and it was _not_ just to get out of a morning's work.

He still hadn't told his mother he was working here.

And why.

"Will there be a lunch after?" Reilly asked.

Mickey laughed. "For Amos Krebbs? No."

The boss sighed. "All right, you can go. But I want you back here as soon as it's over." As Mickey nodded and turned away, Reilly added quickly, "Make sure you bring me back a prayer card."

Mickey turned back to stare at him. Reilly couldn't possibly believe he was _lying_ about Amos being dead. For pity's sake! Reilly's daughter had been one of his nurses!

Reilly winked in response to the bleak look in his reluctant employee's eyes. "Might wanna have a mass or two said for him. Can't think of anyone who could use it more."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Action takes place midway through the episode entitled "Jock's Will," beginning the evening Ray gets the call from Miss Ellie to come home for the reading of Jock's will.

 **Disclaimer:** If I owned any of this, I wouldn't hardly be writing fanfiction about it.

* * *

At 10:00 p.m., when Ray and Donna retired upstairs to the guest room, Mickey had still not returned to the house.

"I'd be surprised if he turns up again before we leave on Thursday," Donna told her husband.

Ray exhaled a short breath that was neither a chuckle nor a snort. "You hope he won't, you mean."

Donna considered. She thought it was sorrow she heard underlying her husband's tone, rather than anger, so she told him the truth. "Yeah," she agreed, but her smile was sympathetic. "Ray, I know you meant well, but Mickey isn't a child. He's a grown man, and I think it's already too late."

"I thought I could help him," Ray sighed.

"I know, honey," his wife consoled him. "But remember, just because you lead a horse to water, it doesn't mean he's gonna drink."

* * *

It was nearly eleven when a knock sounded on the door.

"What in the world-?" Donna began, sitting up in the darkness.

"Aunt Lil?" Ray called from his place under the covers.

The door opened a crack, and a soft voice that did not belong to Aunt Lil came in a stage whisper, "No, it's me. Can I come in?"

* * *

Donna blinked against the brightness as her husband's cousin turned on the light and shut the door behind him. She pulled the covers up protectively around herself. What was wrong with the kid to accost them in their bedroom like this?

Ray regarded the young man noncommittally. "Does this mean you've made up your mind?"

Mickey frowned worriedly, but his expression was devoid of mockery, just as it had been at old Amos' graveside. He swallowed. "It's not a question of me making up my mind," he corrected. "We have to ask the judge for permission. Can you meet me at the gas station at nine o'clock?"

* * *

"Mr. Trotter, will you close the door?"

Ray watched with interest as his young cousin silently obeyed, then returned to his place in the midst of the group assembled in the judge's chambers. In attendance were the judge, Mickey, Ray himself, the gas station owner Tim Reilly, a lady from the prosecutor's office whose name Ray had not caught, and a stenographer.

"We are assembled this morning because Mr. Trotter has requested permission to leave the jurisdiction in order to move to Texas to work with his cousin at Southfork Ranch. This will naturally affect the conditions of the restitution arrangement currently in place.

"I take it, Mr. Trotter, that since you have brought us here, it is in fact your desire to accompany Mr. Krebbs to Texas and to work for him there?"

Ray's eyes swung to his cousin for his reaction. Mickey had not so far actually told Ray he wanted to go.

"Yes, sir," Mickey answered now. His face was expressionless, but his cousin was interested to note that the young man's manner was once again totally devoid of mockery, and his eyes glittered with the wet sheen they'd held when Ray had grabbed him on the lawn and told him he wanted to hear a lot of 'Yes, sirs' out of him.

The judge nodded and continued, "In which case the restitution payments would be made from Southfork Ranch to Mr. Reilly."

It had surprised Ray to learn that it was for the owner of stolen car that Mickey worked, although he could see that in a way it made sense. A boy who was able to hotwire a car could be useful in a garage. He smiled slightly, thinking of what Donna would say. _'Trusting souls.'_

"Would you object to that, Mr. Reilly?"

Ray woke up to what was happening, and interjected, "I can pay off the boy's debt right now if that's what's n—"

"Ray," Mickey broke in, actually offended by the suggestion, Ray was surprised to see. "It's _my_ problem, there's need for you to—"

"Gentlemen!" the judge shouted, banging the decorative gavel he'd grabbed from its stand on his desk. "While I realize we are not in the courtroom, this is a quasi-official proceeding of some little importance to Mr. Trotter's future—"

Ray and Mickey had ceased speaking and now looked at the judge with identical looks of chagrin.

"—so I suggest that both of you should refrain from speaking out of turn. Is that understood?"

The cousins nodded in unison, and the judge waited for the echo of their soft 'Yes, sir's to die away before continuing. "Mr. Krebbs, I appreciate your willingness to take responsibility for your cousin, but the intent of the restitution arrangement is to ensure that Mr. Trotter will atone for his misdeeds _himself_ , through his own efforts. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Ray answered.

"What the court _would_ ask of you is that you forward the agreed upon restitution payments to Mr. Reilly, _as Mr. Trotter earns them_ , and that you forward to this court a record of payment, as well as periodic reports as to Mr. Trotter's progress and behavior while in your employ."

 _His behavior?_ Ray glanced again at his cousin. Mickey met his eyes, but Ray did not know how to interpret their expression.

"Is that acceptable to you, Mr. Krebbs?" the judge prompted.

Ray nodded. "It is, sir."

"Mr. Reilly?"

The gas station owner looked troubled. "Will he have enough to live on? He won't be staying at his mother's house if he's in Texas."

It surprised Ray that the man cared. He saw the judge's eyes on him, so he answered, "He'll receive room and board at the ranch."

The judge turned back to Reilly.

Reilly looked at Mickey. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

For a moment, Mickey looked frustrated, "How can I possibly kn—" He broke off abruptly and stared at the polished wooden floor a moment, biting his lip. It was an old floor, some of the boards cracked, and in need of replacement. When he looked up again, his mask was back in place. "Yes. Yes, it is. What I want." While the echo of his voice faded out, there was no other sound in the room save for the clicking of the stenographer's machine.

"Then I've no objection," Tim Reilly agreed, quietly.

"How about from the prosecutor's office?" the judge queried.

"No objection," the prosecutor lady said easily.

The judge turned back to Mickey. "Mr. Trotter, do you remember what I said you in court when this arrangement was first put in place?"

There was a pause. "Yes, sir."

"I will tell you again anyway. Don't make me regret having given you this chance."

Ray was astonished by the look of sincerity in his cousin's eyes. Either the boy held the judge in great respect, or he was the greatest actor this side of Hollywood. "You won't regret it, sir. I promise."

"In that case," the judge concluded formally, "Permission to leave the jurisdiction is granted."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** _Out of the frying pan, into the fire._

 **Disclaimer:** If I owned any of this, I wouldn't hardly be writing fanfiction about it.

* * *

On the sixty mile drive from Emporia to the regional airport in Manhattan, Kansas, neither Ray nor Donna seemed inclined for conversation.

Mickey had never flown before, but he remembered his favorite supervisor at the packing plant telling the story of how a plane he'd been on had lost one of its wheels immediately after takeoff, with the result that they'd had to circle for ninety minutes to burn off their fuel before landing in a shower of sparks on the self-same runaway they'd departed from. Mickey hoped none of the wheels would come off this plane.

Not that he was afraid of flying. Thousands of morons flew every day without incident. To distract himself from uncomfortable thoughts of every air disaster he'd ever heard of, he tried passing a remark about how odd it seemed to drive north and west to get to an ultimate destination 450 miles due south of where they'd been.

"Yes, well, I'm afraid that's where they put the airport, Mickey," Donna said. It was the first time she'd addressed him since they'd gotten in the car.

Pleased that she'd thrown off her gloom enough to actually speak, Mickey momentarily lost his head. "Well, at least you're getting to see a bit of the 'Little Apple,'" he joked. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could recall them.

Donna had turned around to stare at him from the front seat. The two frown lines deepened between her brows. He had a feeling he was going to be seeing a lot of those lines from now on. "Just what is that supposed to mean?" she snapped.

Mickey blinked. "Ray said—" _Was it a secret? How could it be?_ Regardless, there was nothing to do but brazen it out. "Ray mentioned you'd cancelled your trip to New York to come to the funeral," He explained awkwardly.

"When was this?" the woman demanded.

"Last night, when I was packing."

Dead silence in the car, save for road noises.

Ray had sat on Mickey's bed, watching his young cousin stuffing odds and ends into his big blue dufflebag, talking about Southfork and about how it had been for Ray himself to make the journey from Emporia to Dallas. Mickey didn't remember exactly how Ray and Donna's aborted New York trip had come up. It just had.

Mickey checked the rearview mirror for Ray's reaction, and saw in his cousin's reflection that Ray wished he hadn't mentioned it, but Mickey was committed now. "And of course, Manhattan in New York is the 'Big' Apple, so little ole Manhattan, Kansas is the 'Little'—" Donna had turned away to face forward again, presumably so she wouldn't have to look at him. "—Apple," Mickey finished, perversely addressing the back of the woman's golden head.

Not that Mickey blamed her. He'd have been madder than a hornet if he'd been her. To miss out on what Ray had described as a sort of delayed honeymoon like that? On account of _Amos Krebbs?_ No wonder she was mad.

 _Amos Krebbs._ That old man had caused more trouble – Mickey tried to think of some way to let her know he understood. "I appreciate what you did, coming out for the funeral," he began.

It wasn't coming out he way he'd intended, but his mouth ran on anyway, seemingly of its own accord. "The turnout was pathetic enough as it was, without the two of you, it would have been—"

"Mickey!" Ray interrupted.

"Yes, cousin?"

"Shut up."

Mickey turned to look out the window. _'Yes, sir,'_ he thought. He snuck another look at the rearview mirror. Ray's face was set in a grim expression.

Mickey sighed quietly. _What had he done?_


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** _"If you insist on mak[ing] assumptions… assume you will always be wrong."_ ―Tahereh Mafi,  Ignite Me

 **Disclaimer:** If I owned any of this, I wouldn't hardly be writing fanfiction about it.

* * *

The arrival of Southfork's newest ranchhand was heralded by a bang.

Hank, Southfork's oldest ranchhand, seated at the table in the little kitchenette at the back of bunkhouse #2, jumped slightly in his seat in reaction.

Meanwhile, a low string of curses could be heard emanating from the area just inside the front door, some of the words run-of-the-mill profanities, others not merely unusual, but surprisingly inventive, even lyrical. The quiet stream of invective ended in a second _bang_ as a blue missile, sailing low to the ground, flew past the old rocker that bisected the wide archway between the front room and kitchen and slammed into the wooden chair opposite the old man, knocking the chair over onto to the floor.

"What the—" Hank's own chair hit the counter behind him as he rose and turned to stare towards the door.

A boy stood just inside the closed door, his body still holding the follow-through posture of one releasing an object being thrown. Gray eyes met hazel and, and for a split second, Hank saw in the boy's startled expression the same fear one saw in the eyes of a bucking horse as some heavy-fisted cowhand tried to stick on long enough to teach the animal to mind.

An instant only, then the boy's expression had smoothed over to blandness and he was moving towards the kitchen after his duffel bag as though nothing at all had happened.

"Sorry about that," the boy apologized easily, bending and righting the fallen chair. "It slipped out of my hand." He stood erect to meet the older man's gaze. No fear now in the hazel orbs. "You must be the third man."

"The third man?" Hank growled, in spite of himself.

"Ray said—" Despite his seeming composure, the boy's voice caught for a moment, before he began again, more firmly, "Ray said I'd be bunking with three guys, and we just met Jack and Clarence out front , so—"

"—so I must be the third man." Hank finished for him. "That's right." He leaned across the table to shake hands with the boy. "Call me Hank."

The boy nodded. His fingers around the older man's much larger hand were firm: a good, confident handshake. "I'm Mickey."

"The boss said I was to show you around, but I should really finish reading this vet's report first. Care for some coffee while you wait?"

"I'd love some," the boy admitted.

"Pot's on the stove," the older hand told him, reseating himself. He motioned with his head in the opposite direction. "Mugs're in that cupboard."

The boy served himself silently, then threw his slight body disjointedly into the chair he'd earlier knocked over, as though the legs in his baggy jeans would no longer support him.

Hank lowered his eyes to his clipboard and pretended to read the report. His stubby sausage fingers even moved across the page as though to aid his aged eyes. Through the lashes that swept together at the corner of his eye, he studied the new man.

For man he was (if young), not really a boy at all, just smaller than then general run of the hands at Southfork, who tended to top six feet and run to bulk. Off hand, he couldn't think of a single man on the place who wouldn't be able to pick this young man up and break him in half if so minded. Of course, he _was_ the foreman's cousin…

When he'd called last night, Ray had told him the 'kid' was a raw novice at ranching and to assume he knew nothing. What he had not said was that his cousin would arrive in sneakers and looking like he'd never even _heard_ that such a thing as a ranch existed. His outfit might have done at a service station, perhaps…

The young man waited patiently, sipping his coffee and looking around the little kitchen, gazing out the window thoughtfully, his expression troubled. He sighed, but it was not a sound of impatience. It was reminiscent more of weary defeat, like a man makes when acknowledging after a long denial that he has done something very stupid, which cannot be undone.

Hank kept his eyes on his report, away from the boy's eyes, careful not to challenge him, just as he'd avoid challenging a spooky horse. "I hope you don't offend me asking," he began softly. "But it seems like somethin' ain't settin' quite right with you."

The young man blew out a much heavier breath. "It's nothing," he said.

Hank waited a good half minute before prompting gently. "Don't seem like nothing."

Silence again for many seconds. Hank could hear the kitchen wall clock ticking, suddenly loud in the absence of any other sound.

The young man's voice was so quiet, it was almost like he wasn't even speaking aloud. "Have you ever had one of those days when you imagined you had everything all figured out and knew just what to expect, but then when it came down to it, you discovered that everything you'd thought was completely and totally wrong?"

Hank smiled at the typewritten report, then risked raising his eyes. "Every day," he enunciated succinctly.

The boy looked amused. "Me, too," he agreed. "You done with that?" He nodded towards the old man's coffee cup.

"Yeah," Hank told him, then watched the boy reach across the table for it. "So what are you gonna do?" he asked, as Mickey rose from the table and took the two mugs to the sink.

"What _is_ there to do?" the boy asked, dribbling dish soap into the mugs, wiping and rinsing them quickly, then upending them on the drain board next to the mugs used by Jack and Clarence before they'd left to begin work. "Dump my stuff on an empty bunk and get to work, I guess."

Hank grinned approvingly. "You'll do, Mickey."

"I hope so," the boy sighed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** _You have been weighed in the balances and found wanting;_ – Daniel 5:27,  Holy Bible (ESV)

 **Disclaimer:** If I owned any of this, I wouldn't hardly be writing fanfiction about it.

* * *

The other hands did not know what to make of him.

"Fer shure the sassiest boy we ever had on the place," they said.

"What about Buckskin Jim?" someone suggested. "'Member him?"

"Old Jock near to fired him off'n the place about a dozen times, exactly for his sass."

"Was a wonder with the stock though."

"Shore was."

New hands at Southfork tended to be one of three distinct types: ranch people, meaning kids from ranching families who'd been raised knowing what to do, experienced hands already broken in elsewhere, or 'true believers,' greenhorns who had learned about cattle and horses from books, thought the life was 'romantic,' and talked a good game in an interview. These last mostly didn't stay, finding the work too hard, or too dirty, or dealing with animals not what they'd expected, or found themselves unpleasantly surprised to learn that they actually knew nothing for all their book-learning, though now and again one did in fact show up who actually suited the place.

Mickey was none of these.

Ray insisted he knew nothing, and for certain, the boy never claimed any knowledge. He listened gravely to simplified explanations of the most routine matters, sometimes asking questions that would have made the men shout with laughter if he hadn't been the foreman's cousin. Likewise, they resisted the urge to haze him as they might have done had he been anyone else. You never knew how Ray might take it if you messed with his kin. Yet Ray, beyond having a look-see once in a while to make sure the boy was where he was expected to be and working, seemed to take no real interest in him.

Not even enough to see him safely kitted out.

"You know what he said when I told him I'd bet his pretty pink toes waz gonna get stomped black if he keeps on wearing them sneakers in the horse barn?"

"What?" Hank asked, curious.

"First he asked _how much_ I'd bet, then said if any of 'em was so careless as to step on his toes, he just wouldn't ask 'em to dance agin!"

The other men standing around roared with laughter at the absurdity of it, but Hank knew the only other footwear the boy possessed was a pair of rather snazzy dress shoes. He should have had heavy work boots, but he didn't, and Ray did not seem to care any more than anyone else did.

Yet there was something odd about Mickey's manner with the animals. He was no true believer: he did not regard the animals with whom he now worked in any romantic light. But he was unafraid of them. He seemed to regard them as merely large nuisances with which he had resigned himself to deal.

And Hank wasn't the only one who noticed.

"You shoulda seen that Mickey kid helping Billy bring the cattle in from the south 30. Slid 'em through the gate easy as you please, right behind the boss cow's shoulder like he'd done nothin' else in all his born days. When I told him 'good job,' he said the last thing he needed was an 'excited queue of cows.'"

"A _what?!_ And how'd he know what to do?"

"Beats me. That's what he said. And I do not know how he knew. You cannot get a straight answer outta that kid."

"You ask him?"

"Darn straight."

"Whad he say?"

"Said it must be 'beginner's luck.'"

"But what about the—"

Yet another hand cut in. "You know what he said to me?"

"No, what?"

"Caught him staring over the fence at this here steer, and he looked kinda funny, you know? So I says to him, 'Whaddya see there, Mickey?' and he said—I swear to God I ain't makin' this up—he said, 'I see eight hunnerd pounds a hanging meat, thirty pounds a 'meat products', twenty-six pounds a blood, fifty pounds a pauch, seventy pounds a hide, and two hunnerd pounds a drop.'" The man snorted in disbelief. "What the heck is 'drop'?"

Hank, who had worked many jobs in his long and varied career, nodded. _Drop._ Well, that explained where the boy had been.

But it didn't explain what he was doing here.

* * *

Mickey, staring into the shadows beyond the reach of the feeble pool of light in front of the door opening onto the little concrete courtyard, didn't turn when he heard the door open.

He knew it would be Olivia, even before he heard her liquid alto break over the buzzing of the insects investigating the single bulb. Her voice was as low as a whisper. "I'm sorry, Mickey. Did I hurt you?"

The pale hands gripping the two inch pipe that formed the railing were slick with sweat. "Yes. No. Yes," he admitted. He continued to face away from her, into the midnight blackness of the lawn surrounding the packing plant, waiting for her to smack his rear again as she had done _that night_ , as she had done not ten minutes since inside the plant, laughingly inquiring if he was 'ready to give it another go'?"

He wasn't.

The muscles in his buttocks tightened, perhaps in dread or maybe in anticipation, even he wasn't sure which. It had been so _good_ — and yet—

And yet he was so ashamed.

She didn't hit him. She moved towards him, but only to lean against the railing at his side, her strong dark hands gripping the rail next to his own. The shadows were kinder to her than to him: his own frightened white claws stood out glaringly against the darkness, where her supple fingers blended into the warm night.

"I'm sorry, baby," she said again. "I thought—" she paused, seemingly uncertain how to proceed.

 _Uncertain how to let him know he was letting her down._ At thirty, she was the oldest woman he'd ever made love to, as well as the most beautiful. Hot coffee black eyes, and skin the color of milk chocolate, wide brown lips, soft and firm and innocent of lipstick, she was so beautiful to him, he'd hardly known how to speak to her at first.

She was one of only two women tough enough to work the killing floor, and he knew she'd chosen to take him home with her because, after a full shift followed by six hours of mandatory overtime, she'd needed to 'reaffirm her belief in life' in the most elemental way possible.

And had she ever.

But for all his cocky assurance that he was 'ready for anything,' in reality 'anything' had been… a little overpowering. His hands moved on the pipe, as if he could twist it like a pipe-cleaner.

He couldn't. It was immovable. Strong, as the woman beside him was strong. "No, I'm sorry," he gasped miserably. "If I were—" his breath caught on what was almost a sob. God, he _never_ cried! Or at least he hadn't. Not since Pa died. And before that not since the age of five when he'd learned that crying made things worse, not better.

Until the other night, when she had taken him over her—

He listened to his breathing, harsh and fast. Waiting for her to say it was his fault, because he _hadn't_ told her to stop, hadn't said… what she'd told him to say if it got to be too much.

It _was_ his fault. She had told him she wouldn't do anything he didn't want.

"I never meant to hurt you," she said softly. She let go of the railing and turned to look at him. "May I touch you?" she asked.

"Yes," but he breathed his assent to the darkness that surrounded them, not to the woman at his side.

A gentle finger reached up to his chin, and pressed against his jaw, to move his face towards her. "I wanted to give you pleasure," she said.

"You did!" Frustration edged his tone. Their lovemaking had been right up there with the best of his experience. Certainly it had been the most exhilarating. And the most terrifying. Pleasure and pain commingled. "It's not you, Liv, it's me! I'm—"

"Shh!" She laid a finger across his lips to still his self-reproach. "Not everyone is into that," she reminded him. "It's no shame if you're not. I told you." She looked into his frightened eyes a moment in silence. "I was supposed to take care of you," she said.

"And I was supposed to tell you…" his voice trailed off. He was supposed to tell her to stop, _if he didn't like it._

But he hadn't said anything.

He hadn't told her to stop.

He'd only cried like a baby. Terrible, howling, uncontrollable sobs.

He'd known how to stop her, but he hadn't done it.

Did that mean he had liked it?

He had certainly liked the climax, a mind blowing explosion that had left him lying spent, empty, and exhausted on her canopied bed.

Had he _liked_ it?

He shuddered. _God help him. He had._ He shouldn't have, because lovemaking was supposed to be gentle.

His backside had been as sore as the time Pa caught him smoking.

He couldn't _like_ something like that, could he?

Except he knew some people did.

She'd gripped his sore behind as they'd come together, and he didn't know if his gasps then had been of pleasure or pain. The coming together had felt good, he was sure.

But he couldn't do it again.

Not ever.

He was shivering.

"Come back inside," she urged him. She looked worriedly at the door. "If we don't get back to work soon, we'll get in trouble."

"Olivia, wait."

She looked back at him curiously, and in the darkness, his eyes held a wet sheen that might or might not have been tears.

"Thank you," he said, and his voice and his look were suddenly full of gratitude, and indeed his whole little normally-cocky self was unbelievably sweet to her. "Thank you for getting close to me."

* * *

Mickey stared off into the darkness of the paddock where the 'rogue' horse cowered in a nameless fear of its own.

In memory, he felt the pull of cloth against his neck as his cousin had grabbed his shirt. _I'm gonna teach you respect. And I'm just the guy to do it._

He'd been wearing the very shirt he was wearing now.

He could have said 'no' when Ray asked him to come to Southfork.

 _Wh_ y _hadn't he said it?_

 _Why had he come here?_

 _Did he like this?_ He shivered. _He'd barely seen Ray since he'd been here._

The flat empty vastness that was Southfork Ranch spooked him.

If he'd had his bike, he could have gone and lost himself in the nightlife of Braddock. (Always assuming it _had_ a night life.)

But his bike was back in Emporia, and he was stranded here.

Alone.

Alone with forty-nine other ranch hands.

Who had no idea.

It was a test.

He _hoped_ it was a test.

Mickey believed in testing people. He'd tested Ray, and even Donna, when they'd come to the funeral.

And they had both passed his test.

Could he pass theirs?

Mickey exhaled.

It wasn't a test.

Ray just didn't care about him.

Why should he?

Mickey moved his head to ease the crick in his neck, and breathed in the sweet grassy scent of the pasture.

Fine.

He'd just have to make his own fun.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** _Let's shoot crap._ – Big Jules,  Guys and Dolls

 **Disclaimer:** If I owned any of this, I wouldn't hardly be writing fanfiction about it.

* * *

If life were as simple as craps, the world would be a better place.

Roll the dice.

Is it a seven? An eleven? Great! You win.

A two, three, or twelve? Crap! You lose.

If you roll a four, five, six, eight, nine, or ten, then that's your 'point' and you have to wait and see: roll again, but your former friend seven is now your enemy, because if you roll a seven before rolling your point, you lose. Nothing else matters.

If you do make your point, you win.

Just like in an argument.

Simple, right?

And the only equipment you need is a pair of dice.

And a dollar.

But who was he kidding?

Life _is_ crap.

* * *

Mickey had learned craps at his father's knee. Literally.

He and his father had spent many evenings kneeling in a corner shooting craps.

Once in a while they had played for money, but more often just for fun, or for stakes ranging from matches to poker chips to pebbles, because it wasn't the money that mattered, but the game. The thrill of winning and of losing.

It was their special activity, something Ma had had no interest in, a time for the Trotter men to be on their own, to talk about the things fathers and sons talk about, to impress each other with their special twists and throws, to laugh, to enjoy just being together.

It had felt _so good_ , to play with the other hands, to be a man among men, and a man who could do what the others could not, to win—to have finally found a way to get into Braddock, to escape from Southfork for a little while.

Until Ray came in.

A jet of anger sprang like a fountain from his heart, up his stiff neck, to splash its acid all over Mickey's brain at the memory of the suspicion on his cousin's face while inspecting the dice.

Was _that_ what Ray thought of him?

In the dozens of crumbling Westerns on Dad's bookcase back home in Emporia, if you accused someone of cheating, like as not you'd find yourself in a gunfight! And Mickey could see their point.

He'd never been so insulted in his life!

If Ray thought he was _low_ enough to use loaded dice, why even ask him to come here?

If Mickey had known this was how it would turn out, he'd have stayed where he was.

* * *

Clarence found his bunkmate in the tack room. "I hate to be a tattletale," he began tentatively.

Hank looked up from the bridle he was mending. "I ain't management. Tellin' me don't mean squat."

Relieved not to be considered a tattler, Clarence went ahead and told. "I seen Mickey over by ole Carbine's paddock again. Anybody tell him he ain't to be over there?"

Hank shrugged. He hadn't. "Did you?"

Clarence shook his head, exhaling regretfully. "Was kinda afraid to. You know what a mouth that boy's got on him. Just axed him was he figurin' to ride that horse?"

"What did he say?"

"Said, 'Not a chance!' Said he warn't lookin' to git his neck broke."

"Sounds like he's got good sense."

"You're the only one who thinks so, Hank." Clarence still looked worried. "And mebbe he's just tellin' me what he thinks I wanna hear. You know how the young ones are when it comes to them wild horses. And what else would he be doin' there?"

A good point. "I'll check it out," Hank promised.

Mickey was still leaning again the paddock fence when Hank arrived, staring intently at the horse cavorting at the extreme opposite end of the enclosure.

Hank opened his mouth to say that both horse and paddock were off limits when the younger man asked, "What's he so afraid of?"

Startled, the older blurted, "You."

"Me?" The late afternoon sunlight struck a swirling kaleidoscope of blues, greens, and browns from the young man's wide hazel eyes. "Why on earth should he be afraid of me?"

"Well," Hank suggested, "you might be fixing to jump over this here fence, bound over there, and gobble him up."

Mickey laughed. "Come on, he must weigh ten times what I do, if not more."

Hank raised a hand and pointed his index and middle figures inward towards his eyes, to demonstrate that they faced forwards. "But you're a predator." He tapped his temples as a reminder that a horse has one eye on each side. "He's prey. It's instinct."

Mickey was shaking his head, but it wasn't a negative shake. "So what do I do?"

Hank scratched a corner of his mouth with a well-bitten fingernail. "Could give him a treat. A carrot, say, or a lump a sugar."

Mickey sniggered, spreading his hands wide to show their emptiness. "I got nothin' to give him." A flourish of the slender arms emphasized even more the already obvious lack of any foodstuffs of any description concealed about his person.

Hank nodded. "I know where we can get somethin'," he offered.

* * *

The quiet elegance of the restaurant's bar was a little intimidating, so Mickey stopped just inside the door. "Excuse me."

The bartender looked over inquiringly.

"Is it alright for me to be in here dressed like this?"

The barkeep's dark eyes ran over the open neck and black raglan sleeves of Mickey's Henley shirt down the jeans to the sneakers, then shrugged. "We don't get much trade this early," he admitted. "What'll you have?"

Mickey walked over and settled himself tentatively on one of the tall stools. "A beer, please."

"Lone Star's on tap; that do you?"

"Fine." He smiled wryly. _Lone Star. Of course._

He wished he'd been able to change clothes, but Jack and the others had insisted that they would not wait: they'd been delayed long enough looking for Mickey. If he was coming with them, he must come at once. He should be grateful they hadn't just left without him.

He _was_ grateful, but he'd had to jump in the truck with them direct from Carbine's paddock, and he felt self-conscious. He'd stuck out like a sore thumb in the honky-tonk the other hands favored; he wanted to be a little less noticeably different for a while.

"Hey, Jerry," a woman's voice broke into his reverie. "How's trade this evening?"

"As you see." The barkeep inclined his head towards Mickey.

She grinned. "It must be Handsome Man Night."

Looking up from his barstool at the fluffy brown hair, sunny smile, and full figure, Mickey felt a fountain of joy begin to bubble up inside him, and suddenly he could hear the Hank Williams Jr. song _Texas Women_ playing in his head. He smiled at her invitingly. "Handsome Men and Lovely Ladies," he corrected. "Perhaps you'd like a drink, lovely lady?"

One of the green eyes winked at him, then turned to the barkeep. "I'll have the handsome man," she ordered, laughing. "I mean, I'll have what he's having."

Mickey cocked his head, and his long black lashes swept down to cover one of his own eyes momentarily. "I think both can be arranged."

* * *

On average, you could expect nine refusals for every ten passes you made, but that one acceptance easily made up for the preceding rejections. And here was the girl making a pass at him. Maybe Texas was lucky to him, after all.

Her name was Jeanie.

"Is this your first time?"

"My first time in the back of a pickup truck?" he teased. She shifted on the sateen covers, and adjusted her hold on her laughing bedmate. "It's my first time in the back of a pickup truck with a cap on it," he allowed.

He did not have a good frame of reference for the little mobile bedroom she'd created.

It was like making love in a cocoon, perhaps. Or maybe in a jewelry box.

She'd laid a mattress somehow so it covered the entire truck bed, and pillows and big puffy comforters surrounded them with soft warmth, which was a real necessity, since the night had turned cool, and the back of the truck was unheated. The tinted windows of the cap kept out most of the light, but they were both experienced enough to find their way by feel.

For the first time since he'd entered the state, Mickey actually felt welcome.

Much later, as they lay tangled together amid the covers, just breathing softly, hearts beating hard and slow from spent passion, the problems that had driven them together seemed as remote the moon.

Jeanie raised her head a little from where she'd cuddled it against his shoulder. She had to strain to see him in the dim light. "How do you feel?" she whispered.

"Good," he whispered back. She didn't have to search for him, he was right there, his lips had found hers again, not demanding, just there, and sweet, responding to her touch, the way a ripe peach falls into your hand when you touch it.

Their hunger was long sated, but it was nice, the way he kissed her. "Sweetie," she said. "You're a darlin', but I'm afraid I'm gonna turn into a pumpkin soon."

He chuckled. "It can't possibly be midnight."

"No, but it _can_ be ten-thir—"

 _"What?!"_ Mercifully, he was small enough that bolting upright didn't cause him to hit his head on the truck cap. "Jeanie, please tell me it's before ten."

Her watch featured glow-in-the-dark hands. "I'd surely like to, darlin', but it's ten-thirty."

 _I am totally screwed._ Mickey laughed. _Pun intended_. He felt too good physically to care how much trouble he was in. He leaned over to kiss her again. "Then I'm already a pumpkin."

* * *

The barn was filled with shadows, but through the open doorway, Mickey could see the big Southfork Ranch house still lit up like a Christmas tree ornament, beautiful as the fabled 'city on a hill.' Now that was a house.

He reminded himself what he was doing, and looked around in the dim light, and was pleased to find what he had come for. _Lucky, lucky, lucky._

The dice lay abandoned on a bench along the barn's central corridor. Snake eyes showed. The last shooter had lost, it appeared. Mickey picked up the bones, shook them, and threw. They hit the wall, and fell back to the bench. A four and a one. Five.

He picked them up again, closing his fist around them, then bringing it up to his mouth to blow into the hole made by his thumb and index finger. _Come on, five!_ He opened his fingers in a burst of movement, expelling the dice outward towards the wall again, listening to them rattle, and thinking of Jeanie's callused fingers trailing along his skin.

She'd worn a wedding ring. He hadn't noticed it in the bar, but he'd felt it on her hand.

He wondered where her husband was. If he was living. If they were still together.

He should feel bad, he supposed, but he didn't. Must be why sex is so popular.

He'd thrown a two and three. A fitting ending to the night.

"Where in hell have you been?"

Ray.

Mickey tensed. "I told you I was going to into Braddock."

"The boys said you were nowhere to be found when it was time to go."

"I got back here, didn't I?"

"Do you know what time it is?"

 _It would have been later if Jeanie hadn't taken pity on him driven him back._

"Answer me!"

"Did I miss curfew?"

"Mickey—" Ray stopped, exasperated. "It's no use talking to you."

"Guess not." Mickey agreed. He leaned down to the bench and reached for the dice.

His movement drew his cousin's attention. "You lost."

Mickey didn't respond to that, just slipped the dice into his pocket. An awkward silence overtook them. To break it, Mickey said, "I'm surprised you didn't grind them under your boot heel."

Ray was grim. "It doesn't mean I ever wanna see them again, Mickey. Understand? Certainly not during working hours."

"Okay."

His agreement was a surprise. "I thought you'd be giving me an argument."

"Oh, I'm more sensible than you might imagine." Despite his words, both look and tone were pure impudence.

"I hope so."

Mickey was looking across at the brightly lit house. "What's it like?" he asked, wistfully.

Ray considered the big house thoughtfully. "It's like a house."

"Yeah," Mickey agreed softly. He looked around them at the rafters of the big service building around them. His eyebrow cocked challengingly. "And stray dogs like me belong in the barn."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** _There is no substitute for hard work…. And there is no substitute for patience and acceptance._ _–_ Cesar Chavez

 **Disclaimer:** If I owned any of this, I wouldn't hardly be writing fanfiction about it.

* * *

A tiny house occupied by four grown men wears a very different aspect on a working morning than the quiet house on Briar Lane that Mickey had shared so long with his mother.

For one thing, no one had to lie to anyone else about what they were doing all day. For another thing, it was _noisy._

Mickey supposed he should be grateful. If the others hadn't woken him with their commotion, there was no telling how long he'd have slept. Texas was sure a great state for sleeping in.

He'd grabbed a quick shower in an effort to wake himself up, and emerged from the bathroom still toweling his hair dry, to encounter the welcome smell of coffee and the sound of Clarence saying to someone on the telephone, "He'll be there directly." He thought nothing of it, reaching into the cupboard for a coffee mug, until the mustached cowhand said, "You'd better leave that, Mickey. That was Ray. He wants you up to his house."

"But—"

"Pronto."

For all he'd overslept, it was still earlier than they normally started work, and he hadn't eaten breakfast yet. Surely he could stay and grab a bite first? He glanced at Hank, to see what he thought.

"Boss don't like to be kept waitin'," the old man said.

"Fine." Mickey closed the cupboard, tossed back his still wet curls, and stepped back into the bathroom to hang the towel on the rack. "See ya'll later," he tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

"Mickey!" Hank called.

"What?" Only the dark head turned back.

The old man smiled into the disgruntled hazel eyes. "Don't you think you'd better put on a shirt?"

* * *

He'd rarely been called to Ray's house, his cousin preferring to give him his orders through his subordinates, but he remembered where it was alright. There was the sliding door he'd been standing in front of with a piece of Ray and Donna's luggage and his own blue duffel bag when he'd learned that his assumptions about Ray's purposes in inviting him to this place had been… wrong. Served him right for not asking more questions.

On previous occasions when he'd been called here to receive orders, Ray had been outside. Today the yard was empty, though someone was obviously expected. The umbrella topped picnic table was set for three. Apparently the Krebbs' had not had breakfast yet either. He wondered who had been favored with an invitation to eat with his cousins. Whoever they were, Mickey envied them. He was hungry, and it was going to be a long time until lunch.

He knocked carefully on the glass door.

"It's open!" A woman called.

Donna. He'd not seen much of her, but she never seemed happy when he was around. His original notion that she'd disliked him as a sort of spillover from her cancelled New York trip no longer seemed as likely. No one gossips more than a bunch of cowboys, so he was now well aware that she was rich enough to fly to New York any time she felt like it, though as far as he knew Ray and Donna had not gone out of town since he'd been there.

She surely couldn't blame _him_ for that. He'd barely seen Ray. He was here to work, was all, and anyone could tell him what to do. And did so.

Well, it wasn't unknown for him to tee people off without apparent reason.

He slid the door open and stepped hesitantly into the house. "It's me," he told his cousin's wife.

"Mickey?" She was in the kitchen and whatever she was cooking smelled good enough to make his mouth water.

"Yeah."

"Go back outside."

 _What?! He wasn't allowed in the house? Even when called there? He'd been_ _ **joking**_ _when he'd referred to himself to Ray as a stray dog._ He tried explaining,"We got a call at the bunkhouse that Ray wanted me—"

"Do you think I don't know that? Ray's not ready yet. So go wait outside."

Mickey had thought himself proof against surprise. And hurt. Wrong again. He swallowed whatever it was that was trying to rise from his belly to his throat and fumbled for sliding door's big handle. "Yes, ma'am," he muttered.

"Wait," Donna called. She rounded the end of the counter with a huge platter of French Toast. "Take this outside and put it on the table."

 _Cruel._ He accepted the plate of food from her (it was that or let it fall to the floor) and stared at it. "Terrific," he sighed softly.

"You don't like French Toast?"

He stared at her, wonderingly. Was it fun to torment him? He opened his mouth to telI her it was his favorite, but what came out was, "I've been known to choke it down when I couldn't get anything better."

She frowned, and there were his old friends, the two lines between her brows. "Take it out to the table. Ray'll be here in a minute."

He nodded, got the sliding door open somehow, and escaped outside. He set the platter down, and stepped away from the table, looking again at the three place settings. He wished—

 _You can't always have your wishes come true._

He wished Ray had just told Clarence over the phone what he wanted Mickey to do today.

Why make him come over here?

He made a little gesture like a shrug with his shoulders, then shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He simultaneously did and did not want to know who they'd invited to breakfast. With luck, whoever it was had overslept, too, so Ray could give him his orders before their guest appeared. He turned away from the table and stared out over the flatness of the ranch. What had he done to deserve this?

A vision of the look on Tim Reilly's face when he saw the damage to the car they'd stolen and wrecked reminded him what he'd done. Okay, so he deserved it. He exhaled, and moved his head to work the crick out of his neck. He hoped Ray and Donna and their mystery guest would have a nice breakfast. Just as soon as he got his assignment and got out of here.

Mickey heard the sliding glass door open. He turned slightly to watch Ray and Donna emerge from the house. He thought Ray would come over and speak to him, but husband and wife both went to the table and seated themselves. Mickey thought of the morning of Amos Krebbs' funeral, when the three of them plus his mother had eaten pancakes and sausage together. He'd been good enough to eat with them _there_. Funny that they weren't waiting for their guest to arrive. Who was it, anyway?

"Mickey?" Ray asked finally. "Are you gonna stand there all day, or are you gonna sit down and eat?"

 _What?!_

"If you can 'choke it down,'" Donna muttered, transferring a piece of French Toast onto her plate.

"What was that, honey?" Ray asked as Mickey seated himself and lay his napkin awkwardly in his lap.

"Nothing," she lied.

Ray smiled benignly at his wife and his cousin. "After we finish breakfast, I figured we'd go up to the big house. It's about time my cousin met the rest of the family."

Mickey's hand shook a little as he poured himself some coffee.

"What do you think about that, Mickey?" Ray smiled.

Mickey set down the coffeepot, then met his cousin's eyes. He glanced aside. Donna clearly disapproved of the plan. His black eyebrows rose to the challenge. "Does this mean I have to be on my best behavior?"

The answer came in stereo. "Yes!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** _"_ _Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around."_ ― Leo Buscaglia

 **Disclaimer:** If I owned any of this, I wouldn't hardly be writing fanfiction about it.

* * *

It was better, he had to admit.

"Here, try this one," Ray said, pulling yet another shirt from its hanger and tossing it to his cousin.

The flying flannel sailed easily into Mickey's waiting hands. He smiled. Cousin Ray had a mighty love for plaid shirts. He shrugged out of a scarcely worn dark blue with green graph checks Ray had tossed him a minute ago, in favor of this new garment, a soft white cotton western decorated with thin blue and green squares. "You know who she reminded me of?" he asked his cousin.

"Who?"

"Mrs. Hansen, over on Otto Boulevard. Did you know her? I mowed her lawn for years, for fifty cents and—"

"—and all the milk and cookies you could eat," Ray finished, grinning. He cocked his head to look over at his half-dressed cousin. "How in the world did you get fifty cents out of her? She never gave me more than a quarter."

The younger man's voice took on the lilting, singsong quality that mean he was teasing. "Inflation, cousin. Get's 'em all."

Ray swiped playfully at his cousin's arm, a mock blow only, really the merest touch, but as his fingers connected with Mickey's cotton covered upper arm, their eyes met, and the shared good feeling was as startling as a static electric shock.

"I'm glad you're here, Mickey," Ray said.

A miracle.

"I'm glad, too," Mickey replied gravely.

* * *

Shirts, jeans, even hats (with the addition of strategically placed bands of leather to allow them to sit snugly on Mickey's smaller cranium) the two men could share.

But not boots.

"I never expected to be able to fill your boots, cousin."

"We'll go into Braddock for them," Ray decided.

And he meant right then.

Mickey wondered if his introduction to the Ewings made it an impromptu holiday, but wisely forbore to say so. Whatever. He was glad for the change in routine, not to speak of the temporary officially sanctioned release from his ranch duties.

The cousins spent an enjoyable day together for once, the only rough patch of tension coming after they found a sturdy pair of work boots that Ray approved of, and the older man started to pull out his wallet to pay for them.

"I got it, Ray," Mickey told him quietly, pulling out his own wallet.

Ray regarded his young cousin in surprise. "Whaddaya mean 'you got it'? How can you afford—"

The camaraderie they'd shared all afternoon teetered for a moment on the brink of their usual tension.

Mickey still had the money he'd won in the crap game, that's how he could afford it.

Ray took a breath. That was over. It was no use throwing away the progress they'd made. "You don't have to do that," Ray told him. "I can afford it."

"I can buy my own," Mickey repeated, still quietly, but with great firmness.

Ray stared at him, perplexed. He would not have pegged Mickey as too proud to take charity. He'd taken everything else Ray had offered without any such qualms.

Mickey had given the clerk his money, and had the man put his sneakers in the box so he could wear his new footwear out of the store.

As they left, the younger man smiled wryly at his cousin. "Stupid, right?" he admitted. "Hand-me-downs are one thing, but—"

"I understand," Ray assured him. And he did really. They were from the same stock, after all.

And a man looked after himself.

It was an attitude he approved of.

A novel sensation, approving of Mickey.

"Come on," the older man said, grinning affectionately at his stiff-necked young cousin. "You can buy me a beer."

Mickey's brow furrowed questioningly. " _I_ can buy _you_ —"

Ray winked, and explained, "Well, I wouldn't want you to offend you by offering you charity."


End file.
